The Five Senses
by Little Claws
Summary: HG/SS. Hermione falls prey to Severus in five distinct ways. Warnings for a smattering of light kink!
1. See

**A/N:** It's windy and rainy here in England, and what better way to while away the time indoors than in contemplation of our favourite Potions Master?

I've lurked on this site for a looong time, but this is the first fic I've posted, so if you have the time to leave feedback, I'd be delighted to hear it! I solemnly swear to reply to any reviews! Happy reading. xx

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><p>It wasn't often that Hermione Granger failed to pay proper attention in class, and when she did, it was always for a Very Good Reason.<p>

The list of previous Very Good Reasons included plotting to steal ingredients for an illicit potion which, she had been sure, would help to unmask the heir of Slytherin and prevent any number of attacks on Muggleborns. No one could deny that _that _was worth a bit of shoddy work in class.

But did Severus Snape count as a Very Good Reason?

At the moment, Hermione couldn't care less.

The low, gloomy dungeon was full of the sounds of scratching quills. Nobody was daring to talk. The class had been instructed to copy out Golpalott's Thirteen Laws and then formulate unique suggestions for their application in antidotes to common poisons; a fiendishly difficult task that Snape had clearly taken great pleasure in setting. Naturally, it had elicited a good deal of mutinous muttering and dark exchanged glances, but still, almost all of the class had started straightaway for fear of handing in incomplete work at the end of one of _his _lessons. Even Harry and Ron were bent intently over their rolls of parchment, their books open in front of them.

Hermione, however, had not even picked up her quill.

Her eyes were fixed on the front of the classroom.

Snape was sitting in a low-backed leather chair, his pale, long-fingered hands neatly clasped on the desk in front of him. He remained almost still as he watched the silently working students; only his eyes flickered this way and that, and his tongue moved every now and then to moisten his pale lips.

Hermione had long been of the opinion that Severus Snape was one of the most intimidating men she had ever encountered. Regardless of where he was, whether stalking through one of the school corridors or appearing in Grimmauld Place to attend Order meetings, his presence seemed to eclipse everyone else's with silent, irresistible authority. But it was in Potions that his force of character seemed to affect her most. It was in _his_ classes that Hermione had retorted angrily, shed tears behind her cauldron, and deliberately disobeyed instructions in order to help Neville.

And why?

Because, despite her derision for his malicious conduct, his intelligence never failed to astound and humble her.

Given this underlying awareness of her own particular interest in her professor, Hermione wasn't quitesure what it was about _today_, of all days, that had captivated her so utterly. Somehow, somewhere, in the past few hours – or was it days? – the first flickers of something new had awoken. Perhaps she was losing her mind. Perhaps it was something to do with her hormones. Perhaps someone had slipped something into her pumpkin juice at lunch.

It was desire.

No one else had noticed that Hermione wasn't doing any work. She was left uninterrupted, to stare; to consider.

To imagine.

Snape's black robes fell in fluted waves over the arms of his chair, and pooled around his feet. Although they would almost certainly be made of the stiff wool fabric from which all autumn and winter robes were fashioned, their rich darkness gave them the appearance of brushed velvet. Feverishly, Hermione pictured herself crawling towards him as he sat, resplendent in authority, and arching herself like a cat against the glorious swathes of material that hung from him. They would be rough to the touch, she knew, but strangely pleasing.

She closed her eyes momentarily.

Opening them again, her gaze alighted on the black leather boots, and her heart began to beat slightly faster at the base of her throat. How had she never noticed them before? With the most subtle of shines, their sleek darkness brought to Hermione's mind old-fashioned military boots; long, elegant, and lickable.

Lickable?

Gods.

Feeling intensely glad that nobody else could read her innermost thoughts, Hermione allowed her gaze to wander languorously upwards. She drank in the neat row of buttons that held each sleeve taut over the swell of his forearms, the high collar that betrayed the subtlest hint of a crisp white shirt beneath, the pale lips that were permanently crooked into a twist, and the eyes –

His black eyes glimmering knowingly back at her.

Hermione dropped her gaze at once to her blank parchment, her heart hammering against the inside of her ribcage so painfully that she was _sure _someone would hear it. She could feel the prickle of sweat at her hairline and under her breasts. If there was one thing that Hermione wouldn't be able to stand at that moment, it would be Snape drawing the entire class's attention to her by making a lazy, bullying comment about her clear lack of work. She wouldn't be able to stand it – not because she hadn't been bullied by him before, she _had _– but because she would be unable to hide her flushed face, heaving chest, and empty parchment. _And_ _everyone would know._

After what felt like an age, Hermione cautiously raised her eyes once more.

Again, he stared back.

For several moments, Hermione struggled to work out whether or not to do something incredibly, _spectacularly_ reckless. Hovering painfully on indecision, her eyes flicked between each of his, searching for – what? Launching herself into the unknown, Hermione suppressed as best she could the flutterings of panic in her abdomen, and gazed, very deliberately, into his black, glittering eyes.

They were full of cold triumph.

Hermione had always had the vague impression that Severus Snape could infer more about a person that they willingly told. Now, it was incontrovertible. He could read her as easily as he would read a book, and he knew, perfectly well, the thoughts that reeled through her mind. The seconds and minutes seemed to stretch away in all directions as the intensity of their coupled gaze increased.

It was painfully erotic.

When the bell rang to signal the end of the lesson, Snape did not react. He remained, staring at Hermione, for a second or two longer. And, for the most fleeting of moments, a hint of a smirk twisted his lips.

Then it was gone.

After packing away their things, the class filed mulishly past Snape's desk to hand in their work on the way to dinner. Hermione fell into line behind Harry and Ron, fear making her stomach turn over within her. When it was her turn, she reached out with a shaking hand, and placed her blank parchment on top of the pile.

"Detention, Miss Granger."

"Yes, sir."


	2. Hear

**A/N: **Many thanks again to those of you who took the time to review – I appreciate it so much! Enjoy the next chapter :) xx

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><p>The detention took place the following evening at eight o'clock.<p>

For the whole day, Hermione had been distracted and jumpy – so much so that Harry and Ron had even suggested that she visit the Hospital Wing for a Calming Draught, an idea she barely registered as she picked absently at her steak at dinner.

As well as being a novice at flunking classwork, Hermione Granger was a novice at detentions; they just weren't something she _did. _The midnight trip with Hagrid into the Forbidden Forest in their first year didn't reallycount, because she wouldn't have broken rules had it not been for the pressing need to remove an illegal baby dragon from the country. Moreover, despite the frightening seriousness of their work in the Forest that night, she had actually found the visit exceptionally interesting, knowing that she was being allowed to explore a normally prohibited site, while being protected from any danger by Hagrid and Fang.

Somehow, however, she didn't think that the detention with Snape was going to be quite so straightforward.

At a minute to eight, Hermione knocked on the classroom door.

"Enter."

She turned the handle and edged inside, closing the door again behind her. As soon as the latch clicked into place, the atmosphere changed perceptibly. She hardly dared to breathe into the silence.

The student tables that usually filled the classroom were gone, save for one, which stood alone in the centre of the dungeon, about five yards from the teacher's desk. There was something on it, but she couldn't quite make out what... The scene was lit only by the torches on the walls, which bathed the whole room in an eerie, glow. Through the half-light, Hermione could make out the familiar figure of the Potions Master in his leather desk chair, cutting a silhouette against the wall behind him. For several moments, she stood quite still, her back pressed against the dungeon door, nerves fluttering in her stomach with urgent wings.

"Stop dawdling, Miss Granger, and come here."

Hermione hurried forwards, the blood pounding in her ears. Her mouth was suddenly dry; she licked her lips nervously. Snape watched her over his steepled fingers.

"Sit."

Hermione turned to the single table at once, ready to obey – but stopped. She turned nervously to look at Snape again. He watched intently, waiting for her to speak.

"Sir... I'm going to be facing away from you. Shall I move the chair to the other side?"

"No, Miss Granger. You shall not."

Hermione stared at him for a couple of seconds, wholly unnerved, and then slowly pulled out the chair and sank down onto it, her cheeks burning. Snape had arranged the room so that Hermione would be facing the back wall, rather than the teacher's desk, so that she would be unable to see him for the duration of the detention. He, on the other hand, would be able to watch her.

Her eyes fell to the things on the desk. On the left was a jar of dead Flobberworms. In the centre was a silver knife and chopping board. On the right was a large bowl.

Hermione groaned internally.

Then, a shiver ran up her spine as Snape's voice floated over to her, echoing slightly in the stone dungeon.

"You are to chop each Flobberworm into eight precise segments, and put the segments into the bowl. That is all. The jar will continue to refill itself, so you need not worry that you will run out of work to do in the hours that lie before us..." She could practically _hear _the smirk on his pale lips. "Begin."

Hermione began.

It was, as she had expected, revolting, tedious work. The first hour or so was possibly the most boring she had ever experienced. It was not, however, the worst part of the punishment.

The soft hairs on the back of her neck kept prickling with the sensation of being watched – and yet, Hermione had no way of knowing for sure when Snape _was _actually looking at her, because she was forced to face away towards the plain back wall of the dungeon. It was torturous. She ached to look at him, to repeat her visual journey of the previous day. She was also, all of a sudden, terribly self-conscious of the way she might look from the back.

Hermione wanted Snape to look at her; she _did_. But she wanted to look at him looking at her, and also to look at him, and –

Her hands were shaking so badly that she could barely hold the silver knife.

Then, suddenly, out of the silence, came his voice. Its tone left Hermione in no doubt that Snape was preparing to settle into his sardonic reprimanding for a good while yet.

"You have behaved, Miss Granger, in an inexcusable fashion..."

Oh gods.

That voice.

It was barely more than a purr. It was quiet – so quiet that Hermione had to strain to distinguish the words. It was deliberately done. This alone made her quiver with desire; she knew that he _wanted_ her senses to be aching for him – he _wanted _her to be straining to hear his next words.

"I have rarely encountered a more serious case of wilful indolence in my lesson..."

The words rolled around her; winding through her clothes and hair and hearing like probing fingers. His voice, though quiet, was deeply and darkly resonant. Hermione wondered feverishly whether this was the voice Snape used with the women he took to bed. Did he even take women to bed? Did she want him to have done so? Did she want to be in his bed instead?

The silver knife slipped in the sweat on her palm.

Hermione closed her eyes hard and opened them again, the blood racing through her veins like Fiendfyre.

"One begins to wonder whether you really care about your education at all..."

Hermione's insides began to writhe. She was torn inside; anger was rearing within her at this obvious jibe, but desire, too, seemed to be pooling deep in her abdomen. His words continued to slink towards her across the gloomy dungeon, cajoling her into a state of aching need – the need to turn around, to see him, to _touch _him.

But still she sat, drenched in the sound of his liquid voice.

Time snailed past.

By the time eleven o'clock chimed, Hermione was so overcome with frustration and desire that she could barely see the work in front of her through the haze of unshed tears.

"You may leave, Miss Granger."

She jerked from her reverie; the voice was once again curt and short-tempered. She got clumsily to her feet, hastily putting unchopped Flobberworms back into the jar and replacing the lid. She picked up her bag, tucked in her chair, and turned around.

Snape was gone.

For several minutes, Hermione stood in the gloomy silence, feeling her heart thrumming wildly against her shirt. Then, on legs that seemed to be made from water, she stumbled out of the dungeon, suddenly desperate to put as much distance as possible between her and the Potions Master.

She was dreading tomorrow's lesson.


	3. Smell

**A/N:** Thank you again to each reviewer for your very kind words. And special thanks to guest reviewers I can't reply to individually: you guys are ace! :) I hope you like this chapter. I feel quite bad tormenting Hermione so much... but that doesn't mean I'll stop! ;)

Oh, and if anyone's into this kind of thing, I was listening to the Joris Voorn remix of Lana del Rey's 'Video Games' pretty much on repeat as I wrote this... weird, I know, but it's quite hypnotic and has undertones of desperate, only-half-requited desire. Funny that, eh? xx

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><p>Hermione couldn't believe she was doing this.<p>

It was ten minutes past three, and she was, correspondingly, ten minutes late for her last lesson of the day: Potions. Instead of being where she ought to – sitting in the dungeons alongside Harry and Ron – she was pacing a girls' bathroom on the floor above, compulsively checking her watch.

Hermione couldn't remember being late to anywhere in her life – let alone a Potions lesson. Let alone _on purpose._

Her stomach was turning over on itself constantly at the prospect of what might happen when she finally did arrive. Would Snape shout at her? She doubted it somehow; he didn't seem like the kind of man who would pass up an opportunity to use his proclivity for cunning manipulation. Would he keep her behind after the lesson? Would he – she closed her eyes to calm herself – give her another detention?

She really wanted him to.

The previous night, Hermione had lain awake for hours, long after the other girls in her dormitory had gradually stopping chatting and fallen asleep. Her mind had been buzzing with the events of the evening; Snape sitting her alone in the middle of the dungeon, facing away from him, and then torturing her with the most painfully exquisite insults that had teased her invisibly until she was a quivering wreck.

Hermione paused in her path around the bathroom, and tapped the mirror thoughtfully with a nail.

She _had _enjoyed it.

There was no denying that. But, alongside the desire that had coursed through her veins at the mere sound of his voice, there was a rivet of fear, followed by another of self-disgust. Harry and Ron – and probably anyone else who happened to find out what she was secretly craving – would be utterly revolted.

And she wouldn't be able to blame them.

Snape was, and had always been, _horrible_ to her. Utterly, utterly horrible – and at every opportunity. In fact, the only people Snape picked on more than the 'insufferable know-it-all' were Harry, of course, and Neville.

_So why did she want him so much?_

He wasn't handsome. He wasn't nice. He _certainly _wouldn't settle down in a little house in the country with her. Perhaps – _perhaps _– it was because he was aware of how Hermione felt. He could, somehow, sense her desire. The fact that both she and Snape were well aware of the game they were playing; the fact that he was using the opportunity to torment her; the fact that he wanted her to suffer _at his own hands_... It was devastatingly erotic.

Hermione checked her watch. It was fourteen minutes past. Gods, how he would _despise _her. She shivered in anticipation.

At fifteen minutes past, she opened the bathroom door and began to hurry towards the dungeon. Her footsteps rang out loudly as she hastened down the deserted marble staircase and across the Entrance Hall, her breath beginning to shorten with the exertion. She did, after all, need to _seem _as though she had been hurrying as quickly as she could to the lesson...

Hermione took a deep breath, and burst through the dungeon door.

Snape was standing by the blackboard, explaining the last few stages of the Shrinking Solution that they were apparently brewing that lesson. At the crash that announced Hermione's arrival, he fell silent, and the entire class turned to stare at her.

"S-sorry, sir," she panted, clutching at her side theatrically. "I was... I was delayed... unfortunately..."

"You are fifteen minutes late to my lesson, Miss Granger."

The voice was a snarl. Hermione had to clench her hands into fists to stop them trembling with lust.

"Let's see..." A nasty smile twisted Snape's pale lips. "I think we ought to make that fifteen points from Gryffindor, don't you? And _another _detention..."

Hermione didn't reply. Her face was flaming, and she was quite aware of the sea of faces gazing at her, punctuated by small, darting movements as someone whispered to their neighbour. Her heart was beating so loudly that it felt as though it was going to burst.

Snape extended a long finger and pointed towards the only empty desk, right at the back of the classroom. "Sit."

Hermione turned, and marched through the rows of her classmates until she had reached it. Ron and Harry stared at her in disbelief as she passed; she grimaced at them and dumped her schoolbag under the table.

"As I was saying before Miss Granger so kindly decided to join us," Snape went on, "Skin the Shrivelfigs before you add them to the potion – do try to remember that, Longbottom, won't you?" He paused to enjoy a malevolent smirk. "You have forty-five minutes. Begin."

As the class worked, Snape prowled the rows of desks, praising the Slytherins and making snide comments about the Gryffindors.

Eventually, he reached her.

"My, my, Miss Granger," Snape said loudly, so that the whole class turned to listen. He had scooped up a ladleful of her potion, and was letting it trickle slowly back into the cauldron. "This really is _abysmal._ The consistency is completely wrong. It just goes to show what happens when you arrive at my classroom late..."

Hermione could see Malfoy clutching Goyle in hysterical, but completely silent laughter.

But she didn't care. In fact, Hermione couldn't have cared about anything else just then even if she'd tried.

As Snape bent closer to inspect her work, lecturing the class on exactly why it was so utterly dismal, Hermione was suddenly overcome by the most intoxicating scent she had ever detected. It was dark, musky, and infused with spices – and it was emanating from Snape. The aroma invaded her nose and mouth so completely that she found that the air was suddenly thick; suddenly difficult to inhale. Hermione's heart seemed to catch in her throat as she realised that this was the closest she had ever been to him.

A heavy warmth had settled in her groin, as and she breathed in that delicious scent, it expanded and pulsed, heating her body from the inside out.

Her breath was shallow and uneven; she kept her head bent low so that the rest of the class wouldn't be able to see her flushed cheeks and parted lips. She was desperate to writhe where she sat – to press her thighs together – to press against –

She needed him.

Snape straightened up with one last, scathing remark, and swept over to Dean and Seamus' table, his cloak billowing in his wake. It sent a last, intoxicating wave of scent over Hermione, who wilted in her chair.

The rest of the class resumed their potion-making.

Hermione, however, did not. Her brain felt as though it had turned into liquid. Vague, blurred ideas of what he might do to her in their next detention swam before her eyes as she sat limply in front of her cauldron, staring unseeingly at the blackboard. _What would he do to her?_ She knew that he wouldn't repeat the same punishment again – no, he was far too imaginative for that. It would be something different. Something much, much worse.

But what?


	4. Touch

**A/N: **Hello again everyone! I hope you're ready for a little more Hermione-baiting... I know I am! Thanks to everybody who reviewed – you're making this far more fun than I thought it would be :) I had a prolonged dilemma about whether to do Taste or Touch first... and came to the conclusion that there was more fun to be had this way round (cackle). Enjoy! xx

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><p>Hermione could hardly bear the long gap between the lesson and her detention.<p>

Not one, not even two, but _three _days passed before an ill-tempered tawny owl arrived at the breakfast table, just as she had helped herself to toast. Hermione, her fingers trembling so much that the owl quaked too, unfurled the parchment to see the shortest note she had ever received:

_My office, eight o'clock._

Snape hadn't even bothered to sign it. Obviously, he didn't _need _to – he would be well aware that she had been on tenterhooks for the last three days, waiting for news of her next punishment. Hermione pocketed the note and then looked over at the staff table, hoping to catch his eye.

It was a vain hope.

Snape was gazing serenely out over the Great Hall; not joining Professors Flitwick and McGonagall in conversation, but sipping silently from the cup of tea he held between his long, pale fingers. Hermione stared at him from where she sat at the Gryffindor table, silently willing him to look at her. But he did not. Instead, just as Hermione was beginning to think that he was unaware of her gaze, a slow, dirty smirk made its way onto his face.

Hermione dropped her toast.

He could make her squirm without even looking at her.

She stood up, leaving her breakfast untouched, and marched briskly from the Hall, leaving Harry and Ron behind in a state of complete bewilderment.

For the rest of the day, Hermione was a mess of nerves. She couldn't even concentrate in lessons, which meant that, for the first time _ever_, Hermione was outperformed in Transfiguration by somebody else (her finished notebook, which had originally been a butterfly, was still flapping its pages hopefully). However, she didn't really care. She had far more important things to worry about.

Things involving a certain Potions Master.

By the time she arrived outside the dungeon that evening, Hermione was trembling from head to toe. She knocked on the door, painfully aware of her flushed cheeks and rapid pulse. She wasn't sure that she was going to be able to make it through another few hours alone with Snape without doing something incredibly stupid.

Like begging him to thrown her down on the teacher's desk and –

"Enter."

She slipped through the door and closed it behind her, breathing in the familiar scent of cold, damp stone. The room, once again, had been cleared of desks, but it was much darker this time. The only torches that were burning in their brackets were directly behind the teacher's desk. This gave Snape, who sat as usual in his leather chair, the appearance of some pagan idol; sitting languorously on a seat of power, flanked with flame. Hermione almost moaned at the sight.

"Miss Granger," he said silkily. "Sit."

It was at that moment that Hermione noticed that there _was _another chair left out. It was sitting right in front of Snape's desk.

She swallowed nervously, and moved across the classroom and into the pool of flickering light. As she sat down opposite Snape, she realised quite how close they were. She could reach out and touch him if she wanted.

Of course she wanted.

"I don't think, Miss Granger, that your punishment the other day was quite sufficient to rid you of your wantonly bad behaviour."

The effect his voice had on her was astonishing. She could literally _hear _her heart beating, strangely high up in her neck, and her wrists were prickling with a completely new, half-painful sensation. It would be ridiculous to hope that Snape couldn't see the effect his proximity had on her body.

"As such," he went on smoothly, gazing so steadily into her eyes that Hermione felt as though he was reading her mind, "I have decided to take more, ah, _drastic_ action."

There was that heat again, deep down in her belly, beginning to throb against her from the inside.

"Hold out your hand."

Hermione stared at him for several seconds, her mouth slightly open, and then extended her hand across the desk so that it lay palm-upwards against the cool wood. Snape regarded it with cruel satisfaction for a moment, before withdrawing from the top drawer an old-fashioned wooden ruler.

Hermione watched him, wide-eyed.

He gave her a slow, almost gentle smile as he toyed with the ruler for a few seconds, before bringing it down on her open palm with a harsh smack. She gave a yelp of pain and shock, tears springing to her eyes, but then, at once, his fingers were there instead, rubbing the inflamed skin in careful circles.

Hermione felt like she was going to pass out; not just from pain, but from the sheer volume of desire that was building up within her.

Again and again, he brought the ruler down against her palm, eliciting pain, then extraordinary pleasure, as his fingers found her skin; soft, caring, _possessive_. After what felt like hours of agony, he stopped, and ordered her to switch hands. The intoxicating ministrations went on.

Hermione felt like bucking her hips where she sat, so distraught was she by the teasing he was inflicting. She needed him now more than ever before. Perhaps that was why the words fell from her lips at that precise moment; why her hand, with its own volition, suddenly spun and caught him by the wrist, feeling for the first time the deliciously soft, warm surface of his body.

"Please - _please_ kiss me!"

He stared at her for several long moments, his eyes alight with malicious satisfaction. And then, very carefully, and with ill-disguised pleasure, he answered.

"No."

He shook off her hand and stood up. Hermione melted forwards onto the desk; her raw hands extended before her, and her head against the cool wood, her chest heaving. He _couldn't _leave her like this – he just _couldn't –_

"You are excused, Miss Granger," Snape said, pointing towards the door with a long, cruel finger. "Good evening." With that, he adjusted his robes, and swept off towards his private chambers, the dirty smirk once more upon his pale lips.

Hermione lay still, her mind reeling.

Eventually, she dragged herself into a sitting position, and stood up. Her legs felt like water as they carried her to the exit. But then, as she touched the handle of the classroom door, Hermione stopped, her breath coming in short gasps. She was a _Gryffindor._ She wasn't going to give up _there_. For another few minutes, she stood like a statue, poised on the agony of indecision.

And then, suddenly electric with excitement, she turned, and followed Snape.


	5. Taste

**A/N:** The last instalment! Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to let me know what they thought – it's been an absolute blast and you've given me the motivation to write more stories soon after this one, for which I am very grateful :) I hope that you enjoy this final chapter. So long, chaps! xx

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><p>Hermione's heart was in her mouth as she edged silently into Snape's private quarters.<p>

The latch clicked softly as the door fell back into place behind her, and she found herself in a small sitting room. A fire was burning in the grate. Its light cast a golden glow over a spectacular bookshelf that spanned the entire back wall, its shelves occasionally adorned with a pot plant or moving photograph, a low, dark green sofa, and a coffee table littered with books, essays, ink bottles and quills, mugs, a wine glass, and – she almost laughed – an empty packet of Fizzing Whizzbees.

It was a glimpse into a private life she had not hitherto imagined.

A creaking sound from somewhere nearby made Hermione jump, and her pulse began to patter urgently against her ribcage once more. Looking cautiously around, she caught sight of a door on the opposite side of the room. She stepped carefully past the coffee table, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, and paused, feeling sweat prickle the backs of her knees and her hairline.

The door stood ajar by a fraction. _Had Snape known she would follow him?_

She hoped so.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione tiptoed right up to the door, and peered through the gap.

The room contained no furniture besides a dressing table and a bed. Upon the dressing table sat several identical glass phials, each containing differently-coloured liquids. The bed, by contrast, was made up of pure, plain white linen. Snape was sitting on its edge. He had divested himself of his outer robe and buttoned jacket, leaving him clad in his boots, black trousers, and a white shirt with a high collar – the cuff of which he was unbuttoning lazily.

Hermione couldn't help it.

She let out a shuddering exhalation of want.

Snape did not move, but continued to unbutton his shirt cuffs, his eyes fixed on what he was doing. But then, a slow, filthy smile spread across his lips, sending a spark of desire shooting directly down into Hermione's groin.

"Well, well," he said softly, not looking over to where she stood half-concealed, "Miss Granger. I hadn't expected you back so soon."

He _had_, of course.

As though in a dream, Hermione pushed open the door and stumbled into the room, her legs like water.

"Kneel."

He was pointing at the carpet just in front of where he sat. Without replying – without _thinking _– Hermione moved forward and sank breathlessly down onto the carpet, her hands reaching out automatically to touch him.

"No."

She dropped her hands, her head bowed. She wanted to touch him _so _badly – but she wasn't fool enough to disobey a direct command. She contented herself with staring at the sleek black leather of his boots, feeling both terror and exhilaration streaming through her body in equal measure.

Snape was watching her: she could tell. For several long minutes they remained frozen where they were.

But then, very slowly, and very deliberately, Snape slid his right foot forward so that the tip of his boot rested against Hermione's knee. Her breath hitched, and her heart pumped so desperately that it hurt. The smooth leather rubbed gently against her, and then slid up further, along her thigh and towards her hip, catching the hem of her skirt as it went.

Then he stopped, replaced his foot on the carpet, and sat back languorously to watch.

"Lick."

Hermione didn't need telling twice. She leaned down, placing both hands on the carpet, and pressed her parted lips to the sleekly-polished leather of his right boot. She licked hungrily, from the toe to the ankle, where her nose grazed against the hem of his trousers. The taste of leather was strong in her mouth, but instead of revolting her, it intoxicated. Tears slipped from her eyes as she worshipped his boots, first one, and then the other, burying her face against their smooth hardness; testing them with her teeth.

"Up. Up to me." Snape's voice was dark and husky.

Hermione obeyed. She slid up his calves, pressing first her head against his knees then smoothing the front of her body against him, high with the sensation of her chest and stomach brushing past him. His hands came down to tangle themselves in her hair, and she arched into his touch like a pet, tears still dripping from her chin with the sheer exhilaration of it all.

She could feel her pulse between her legs.

She found Snape's fingers against her mouth and breathed hotly against them, her tongue flickering out to taste his skin.

And then, quite suddenly, he caught her by the chin, holding her completely still.

Hermione stared up into his dark eyes, both chastened and invigorated by his touch. His gaze travelled all over her face, from her chin to her hairline, before a satisfied expression came over his features. Very slowly, he leaned down towards her. Hermione's eyes fluttered closed, and she quivered as she felt his teeth capture her bottom lip and squeeze softly. She groaned into his mouth. The pressure lifted, and then his tongue slipped between her lips and he explored her mouth aggressively.

It was her fantasy incarnate. But just as the reality struck her, and she began to respond in kind, he had pushed her away with his fingertips and sat up. With a flick of his wand, the door to the bedroom slammed.

Hermione stared at him through feverish eyes, her chest heaving and her cheeks flushed.

Snape smirked.

"One point to Gryffindor."


End file.
